


Gaffer Tape

by booksnchocolate



Category: Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: Banter, M/M, Sex in the Snow, cillian's motherflipping mouth, cillian's not much better, kind of, tom being a sarcastic little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Tom doesn't know how Cillian expects him to remember who the skiing instructor was when Cillian's the one who got the idea to sneak off and have some rough sex. Written for the Inception Kink meme on LJ (2010).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaffer Tape

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't know these people in real life. Written for fun, not profit.
> 
> **A/N:** HOLY ACTUAL BALLS, I've had this thing sitting on my hard drive for about three years. And I don't hate it, so I think it deserves to be posted. And this pairing needs love. So. ~~and ffnet doesn't allow rpf~~ Also inspired by Tom’s comments about being sent down the mountain strapped to a snowmobile with gaffer tape.

“What the – Cillian, _Christ_ , where are you going?” Tom hisses, struggling along after the Irish actor. His progress is hampered by the knee-deep – Jesus, actually – snow, and whose fucking idea was it to invent skis? Tom would happily go back in time and strangle them. (Because seriously, when you’re trying to get down a mountain without killing yourself? Don’t go down it _faster_. In fact, why even bother going up in the first place?)

Already yards ahead, Cillian turns. He skates back towards Tom as easily as if he’s been skiing all his life, the strong, coordinated push of his legs propelling him forward (Tom’s a little – no, okay, a _lot_ envious).

“Cillian, we can’t,” Tom says pleadingly, gesturing with one ski pole. “The ski instructor –” 

“She has a name, Tom.” 

“Whatever. The group will notice we’re not there, and Chris will have our balls for breakfast,” he adds, as Cillian ducks out of the way. 

“Really?” Cillian says, full lips quirking up in a small, amused smile. “I don’t see anyone looking for us. Besides, the lesson’s over already.” 

Tom doesn’t reply, distracted by the wisps of soft brown hair peeking out from under Cillian’s grey wool hat, curling against his neck. Cillian’s eyes are wide, pale blue like the sky above the slopes, and Tom is a little bit enchanted. 

“Come on.” Cillian turns and takes off down the mountain, cutting through the powder like it’s nothing, smooth S turns elegant against the snow. 

“You _fucker_ ,” Tom says, though of course Cillian is too far away to hear him. Then, he swears again as his brain combines the words _Cillian Murphy_ and _fucking_. (It is officially Too Hot inside Tom’s skisuit.) He starts off in pursuit, and then crashes to the ground with a grunt as he accidentally skis over his own skipole – and how do you even _do_ that? Tom is not amused. 

(Tom eventually figures out that by pointing his ski tips towards each other, leaning his weight back, and not steering very much, he can sort of inch down the mountain without falling.) 

He is still not amused when he finally catches up with Cillian, waiting nonchalantly at the edge of a copse of trees. “You made it,” he says, accent curling deliciously around his vowels. “See? It wasn’t that bad.” 

Tom is torn between wanting to punch Cillian and wanting to shove him up against a treee and kiss him. He’s also kind of embarrassingly out of breath, so he settles for putting his hands on his knees, sucking in great gulps of air. Who knew sliding down a mountain could be so much work? 

Cillian is moving again. 

“No,” says Tom. “Oh no. You are not going in there –” 

Cillian stares back at him, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence (Tom is doomed). “It’s a shortcut,” he says, gesturing to – no, _through_ the trees. “We can meet up with the others at the bottom of the hill.” 

Cillian pops his skis off with a minimum amount of fuss, slotting them together neatly and hefting them over one shoulder. “Are you coming?” 

Tom pauses. It’s not that he’s not glad to be away from the ski instructor (what was her name again? Tasha? Tasia?) – he is. Nor does he miss the constant high-pitched drills of “Turn! And bend! And pick up the flowers! And tuuurn! Pick the flowers! Straighten!”. It’s just that Chris has actually threatened to tape him to a snowmobile with fucking gaffer tape and send him down the mountain that way if he doesn’t learn to ski in time for the shoot. 

Cillian is looking at him intently. Tom wavers. The snowmobile can’t be _that_ dangerous…  

“Well, I can’t just let you go in there alone,” he huffs finally, and follows Cillian’s lead. Unfortunately, trying to balance on an angle while taking off skis is not the easiest thing in the world. He gets the first one off just fine, but then overbalances and ends up in a jumble of limbs and poles, one booted foot kicking uselessly at the air (and what, exactly, is the point of boots that weigh a ton each?).

They start trudging through the trees, bare branches forming a lattice over their heads. By the time Tom estimates they’re halfway through the copse (and Jesus, he doesn’t remember being this far away from the group), he has tripped numerous times, pulled Cillian out of two unseen holes (the powder is evil, Tom thinks; no natural snow is that soft), and faceplanted once. There is snow down Tom’s jacket. Cillian is still laughing. Tom has had enough. 

“Right,” he growls, whirling and dropping his skis, “that is _it_ , Murphy.” Cillian barely has time to let go of his skis before he’s being shoved against a tree, Tom’s hands on his shoulders, Tom’s mouth hungry on his. He lets out a small gasp of surprise, but Tom swallows it, deepening the kiss. He pushes flush against the Irish man, drowning in the heat of the kiss, the taste of Cillian on his tongue. 

When he pulls back, still gripping Cillian’s shoulders, Tom is flushed and dark-eyed with lust. He’s also painfully hard. Cillian’s not much better, if looks can be believed, cheeks pink and lips swollen, looking up at Tom through long, dark lashes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Tom manfully bites back a groan. He leans in for another kiss, biting at Cillian’s lower lip and then deepening it as another wave of arousal sweeps them both under. 

“Tonight, when we get back to the base, I’m going to fuck you,” Tom says roughly, between kisses. “I’m going to bend you over and fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for a week. You won’t be able to sit or – or fucking ski without thinking of me.” His voice is low, heated and – 

Wait, that didn’t come out right. “I mean,” he says hurriedly, pulling back, “that’s only if you want to.” 

Cillian laughs shakily. “Who says we have to wait until tonight?”

Tom doesn’t know how to reply to that. Logic? Common sense? The fact that they’re outside on a ski hill for God’s sake, it’s freezing, and neither of them have condoms, let alone lube? (Tom is prepared to amend the “freezing” argument, though. It’s pretty steamy where he’s standing.) “What are you talking about? It’s not like –” 

Cillian is already yanking his gloves off with his teeth and unzipping his jacket. He grabs something from an inner pocket and tosses it to Tom, who catches it automatically. He looks at the foil wrapper in his hand. Back at Cillian. “Oh my God, you horny bastard.” It’s pre-lubed, even. He’s impressed, despite himself. 

Cillian grins. “I’m up for it if you are.” 

There’s a beat of silence, save for their harsh breathing. Tom is treacherously, traitorously hard (oh, he’s _up_ for it all right), and having Cillian rumpled and debauched in front of him is not helping. _Snowmobile!_ the last vestiges of his conscience scream, _Gaffer tape!_ But his erection is pressing insistently against the inside of his snow pants, and when Cillian licks his lips like that, there’s really not much Tom can do. 

_To hell with it_ , he thinks, and crushes their mouths together. 

To call the logistics tricky would be an understatement and a half, but eventually, they manage. Cillian is pressed against a tree, facing uphill; Tom is in front of him, tossing his own gloves heedlessly aside and fumbling at the _five hundred billion_ layers of clothing he’s wearing. Cillian’s nothing but a distraction, dragging him in for a kiss, bruising and messy, teeth everywhere, sending sweet jolts of fire straight to Tom’s groin. 

Tom finally frees himself from the confines of his snow pants (thermal underwear is the tool of the devil). The mountain air is cold against his skin, and Tom hisses even as he rips open the condom wrapper. 

“We better do this quickly,” he says, but Cillian’s already taking the condom from him, kneeling, and – “ _Jesus_.” 

Cillian rolls the condom onto Tom’s dick. With his mouth. His warm, wet mouth. Tom’s brain short-circuits momentarily as he’s engulfed in heat. When he opens his eyes again, Cillian is standing, shoving his own snow pants down to his thighs. He’s hard even in the chill air, face flushed, and Tom really doesn’t want to wait any longer. He shoves Cillian back against the tree and flips him around so he’s facing the rough bark. 

“Fingers,” Cillian pants, “fingers, ple- _ah!_ ” He’s cut off as Tom obliges, sliding in one then two spit-slick fingers up to the knuckle, working him open.

“Ready?” Tom breathes into his ear, and Cillian nods once. Tom pushes into him then, with a forceful thrust, and the stuttering sound torn from Cillian’s throat is like nothing he’s ever heard. 

“Shit,” Cillian breathes. “Shit.” He’s trembling, and so, so tight around Tom’s cock.

“Wrong angle?” Tom asks. 

“No,” Cillian bites out sarcastically, eyes screwed shut at the burn. “This is the best colonoscopy I’ve ever had.” 

Tom rolls his eyes, even though Cillian can’t see it, and pumps his hips. It takes one or two tries until he leans forward just _there_ and Cillian melts beneath him, letting out a strangled cry of pleasure. _Bingo!_ Tom thinks, with the two neurons still capable of conscious thought, and does it again. 

Tom loses himself in the pure sensation of it, sparks of arousal crackling through his veins, flooding his whole body with electric tingles. The cold isn’t an issue anymore, not with Cillian tight and hot around him, and just begging to be fucked. Tom’s hands are clamped to Cillian’s hips hard enough that he knows there will be bruises marring the pale skin later (but try as he might, he can’t bring himself to care, not when Cillian’s moaning his name like that). 

“Fuck, _harder_ ,” Cillian gasps, rocking back into Tom’s thrusts. Tom complies, jack-knifing his hips steadily, pounding into Cillian. He hits his prostate dead on, and Cillian makes a high keening noise in his throat. “Tom, I’m going to –” 

He comes with a full-body shudder, muscles clenching and spasming around Tom’s cock. Tom can’t hold out much longer; his thighs are shaking, but he grits his teeth and thrusts once more – _hard_ – just because he can. He buries himself deep inside Cillian as his orgasm hits him, brilliant bursts of white-hot pleasure slamming up his spine. It’s as if he’s been yanked from his body and is just now starting the slow descent back to Earth, and he wonders if this is a little like how a Kick must feel.

The world filters in slowly as the two men catch their breath. Tom is slumped against Cillian, who is using the tree as his sole means of support. With a small, breathy groan, Tom pulls out and staggers backwards, giving them both some space. He tosses the used condom aside and does himself up in a haze, legs feeling like jelly. When he turns around, Cillian is still fumbling with his skisuit, a slight tremor in his hands. 

Tom notices. “You alright?” he asks. 

“I’m good.” Cillian looks up and grins at him impishly. His cheeks are tinged pink, his lips swollen and bruised from kissing, and _yeah_ , Tom thinks, _Cillian’s a bit more than alright_.  

Together, they pick up their discarded equipment and start to move through the copse of trees. And if the sleeves of their jackets brush together slightly more often than necessary, well, there’s no one there to notice. They emerge onto the pristine snow of the slope relatively unscathed, and Tom mentally awards himself +5 bonus points for getting his skis on without falling over. 

*** 

They reach the bottom to a forest of raised eyebrows from their castmates. 

“Where were you guys?” Ellen asks. She phrases it as a question, but her eyes are dancing behind her goggles and a smile is tugging at the corner of her lips like she _knows_. 

_Shit_ , Tom thinks.

Luckily, Cillian is already answering smoothly. “Tom fell over a ways back, so I helped him up,” Tom coughs, “and we came down together.” If anyone notices how red Tom’s face has gotten for no apparent reason, they don’t say it. 

“Alright,” says the ski instructor – Tanya! Tom thinks, in a flash of revelation. Her name is Tanya! He feels quite satisfied. “Just remember to lean your weight forward and keep your center of gravity low to avoid falls. And try to hold your upper body still. All the movement should come from below the waist.” 

Tom makes noncommittal noises of agreement and tries not to think about the luxury that is his king-sized bed back at the hotel. He barely resists the urge to punch the air in excitement when Tanya announces they can head back to the base. 

He’s whipped from his reverie by Joe’s voice in his ear as they skate towards the lodge. “That’s funny,” Joe says quietly, so only Tom can hear. 

“What is?” Tom asks.

Joe gestures at Cillian’s awkward gait with one gloved hand. “I’ve seen walking and running, but I never knew it was possible to _ski_ with a sex limp.” 

*   *   * 

Two days later, Chris arrives on set. There’s a stunt-man with a snowmobile beside him as he beckons Tom over. 

“Tom,” he says, “in light of the skiing lessons, I’ve brought you some gaffer tape.”

 


End file.
